


fish vampires and golf carts (or: why Clint Barton now hates Arizona)

by squadrickchestopher



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: A.I.M., Ballroom Dancing, Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Crack, Don't Examine This Too Closely, Human Experimentation, M/M, POV Clint Barton, SHIELD, fish vampires, golf cart thievery, somewhat gross descriptions of death by fish vampires, terrible fish puns, where is bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:27:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25612828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/pseuds/squadrickchestopher
Summary: He’s at the top of the stairs when the door below him bursts open, followed by the familiar high-pitched shrieking. Clint rips open the door in front of him and keeps running towards the distant sounds of the party. He needs something faster than this; he’s gonna get tired and they’re going to catch him and fuckingeathim, how the hell is this his life—Written for The Great Winterhawk Escape.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 25
Kudos: 123
Collections: The Great Winterhawk Escape





	fish vampires and golf carts (or: why Clint Barton now hates Arizona)

**Author's Note:**

> For The Great Winterhawk Escape—here's what Clint got up to in Arizona while looking for Bucky. It's utterly _ridiculous_ and I apologize for nothing. No beta, all mistakes and repetitive phrases are mine and you can't have them.

Clint is having a weird dream about chasing cats when a knock on the door startles him awake. Still half-asleep, he jumps up, body trying to get into a defensive position before his mind registers what’s happening.

Except he’s still handcuffed to the table, so all he ends up accomplishing is losing his balance and falling over, which wasn’t exactly what he was going for. He knocks the chair over too, so he can’t even sit back down and look dignified. He ends up settling for an awkward, half-bent over position on the table, and says, “Yeah?”

The door to the interrogation room opens, and a young brown-haired woman pokes her head in. Clint vaguely remembers her from last night. “Hi,” she says, raising an eyebrow at the state he’s in. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says, trying for his most charming smile. It probably doesn’t look too good, given that there’s three days worth of stubble on his face and he’s still wearing the stolen hazmat suit from the A.I.M. lab.

But she smiles back anyway, and holds up a paper cup. “I brought you coffee.”

“Great,” he says. “Can you, uh…can you fix the chair?”

“Sure.” She sets it back up for him, and he sits down. “How are you feeling?”

“Better now.” He smiles again, and reads her name tag. “Officer O’Brien, is it? Any idea when I can get out of here? I’m kind of in a hurry.”

“We’re still trying to sort out what happened,” she says, sitting opposite of him. “It would help if you could explain things to us.”

“I did explain things.” Clint sighs. “It’s not my fault if you don’t _believe_ me.”

“You have to admit it’s a wild story,” she says. “Do you think you could elaborate a little more on it?”

Clint sips his shitty coffee and fights the urge to scream. He’s so _tired_. He wants to go home and crawl into his very large bed and sleep for a year. Preferably cuddled up next to his very large super soldier.

_Bucky Fucking Barnes, I swear to god if you don’t show up—_

The door opens again, and another officer enters. This guy, Clint remembers. He’s tall, and he’s pale, and he kind of looks like that one bitchy blond guy from _Harry Potter_.

“Hi,” Clint says, waving at him. His handcuffs clink. “Good to see you again.”

Bitchy Blond Guy—Logan, the name tag says—looks very much like he’d rather see anybody else than Clint. He taps O’Brien on the shoulder, and she gets up, allowing him to drop into the chair.

“Rude,” Clint says. “She was there first.”

“Shut the hell up,” Logan says. “It’s question time. I’m going to ask things, and you’re going to answer them.”

Clint snorts. “Do you want me to answer questions or shut up? Mixed messages there, buddy.”

In the corner, O’Brien hides a smile. Logan pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mr. Ring—”

“Rand,” Clint corrects. “Danny Rand.”

“Mr. Rand, then. It’s been a long night for me, and I’ve just about had it up to here with your shit.” He scowls. “Tell me what happened yesterday. Now.”

“I _told_ you what happened yesterday,” Clint says. “You didn’t believe me.”

“Tell us again,” O’Brien says. “Please? We just want to make sure we have all the facts straight.”

Clint sighs. “Fine,” he says, and takes a long drink of coffee. “Okay. I got into town on Thursday…”

* * *

**Twenty-Four Hours Earlier:**

“Arizona,” Clint announces to no one in particular, “is hell.”

He walks across the train tracks, heading towards the distant green sign that promises coffee. It’s so fucking _hot_ here. It’s like living in an oven. A horrible, horrible oven. Even the _breeze_ is hot. He’s already stripped down as far as he can get without being obscene, but it’s not helping. He just wants to crawl inside a freezer and live there forever.

He waits for a golf cart to go by, then hurries across the street. It’s his second day here, and he’s already pretty sure that Bucky’s not around. Still, SHIELD ordered him to do some investigation around suspicious building, so he’ll do that, then get the hell out of here. Maybe go to Alaska or something. Alaska’s hopefully under one-hundred degrees.

It’s so fucking _hot_ here.

And he’s so _tired_ , too. Tired of trying to chase down Bucky. They’d gotten separated on a mission, somehow, and Clint’s been chasing him ever since. Following every single lead or potential blip on the map. Feels like the world’s worst game of hide and seek, really, He’s been to Texas. He’s been to Pennsylvania. He’s been to Virginia. He’s been to South Carolina. Now he’s in fucking Arizona, and he’s pretty sure he’s going to sweat to death before he finds Bucky.

“I swear to God, Barnes,” he mutters, finally coming up on the coffee shop. “If you’re not in the next place I look, I’ll…” He waves a hand, unable to come up with anything adequate enough to cover his fear or his anger. “I’ll do _something_.”

He gets an iced coffee—not his favorite, but if he drinks anything hot, he will _actually_ melt—and drinks it while flipping through the briefing from SHIELD. There’s an address they want him to go check out. Something about A.I.M being seen in the area.

Clint googles the address. “You gotta be kidding me,” he mutters. “It’s a freaking retirement home? What are they doing, Medicare fraud?”

He skims through the rest of it, which isn’t much, then chugs the rest of his coffee. He’ll have to wait to go until tonight, probably. Partially for stealth, partially because no reasonable person should willingly set foot out into that hellscape. Bad guys or not.

Clint glances at the temperature again. One-hundred and twelve. Christ.

“Gonna melt,” he says, and gets up for more coffee.

* * *

He’s on his fifth coffee the time night rolls around, which apparently is alarming enough that the single employee behind the counter looks hesitant about giving it to him.

“It’s fine,” he assures her. “My blood is mostly caffeine at this point. This is barely a drop in the bucket for me.”

“Are you waiting for someone?”

_Yeah, my giant asshole of a boyfriend, who has apparently decided to vanish into the wind without telling either me or SHIELD._

“No,” he says, and takes the cup. “Thank you.”

“We’re closing soon,” she says, and he glances out the window. Sun’s going down. Should be somewhat more tolerable out there. He nods in acknowledgement and waves goodbye, then heads towards the door.

It is not more tolerable. It’s just as hot as it was earlier, except now with the added bonus of a stupidly bright sunset. Clint bites back a string of curses and starts walking down the street. The retirement home is only a few blocks from the coffee shop. He’ll do a cursory investigation, check out whatever the fuck SHIELD thinks is happening, and then catch the next plane out of this place.

The retirement home is very fancy looking. Like a giant hotel, really, which is not what he expected. Granted, his experience with these are highly limited. He’d had to pose as an orderly once to get close to a target, but that had been in Alabama, and the place had looked wrecked as hell. Nothing like this at all. There’s wrought-iron gates, for fucks sake.

“Must be nice to be rich,” he mutters, looking up at them.

There’s distant music coming from inside—some kind of party, maybe?—but the gates are locked up. Clint studies the locking mechanism for a moment, then decides it’s not worth the trouble. He’ll scout around, see if there’s another way—

“Excuse me, young man.”

Clint turns around to see an older guy standing there, dressed in a security uniform. “Hi,” he says, flashing a smile. “How ya doing?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m…” He looks at the gate. “Waiting for someone?”

The guy doesn’t look convince. “This is private property,” he says. “You need to move on.”

“I’m waiting for my grandmother,” Clint insists. “Eleanor…Smith. She invited me to the party tonight, and I’m—”

A golf cart pulls up outside the gate, with three people stuffed into it. They’re all older, probably mid to late sixties, all dressed up in fancy clothes. They’re also all carrying beers, and are pretty clearly drunk as hell. “Irv!” one yells, and the security guard turns. “Open the gate, Irv!”

“In a moment,” Irv calls back. He looks at Clint. “Run along, now.”

Clint bristles a little bit at that, because he’s not a _child_ , and really doesn’t need to be sent off like one. “Look, buddy—”

“Oh!” one of the ladies gasps, and she gets off the cart. She’s definitely tipsy, swaying on her feet as she stumbles towards Clint. She’s shorter than him by a good foot and a half, with a headful of short white curls that she pats into place as she approaches. “Hello, dear boy. Aren’t you handsome? What’s your name?”

“Clint,” he says. “Uh…”

She throws an arm around his waist. “Perfect,” she announces. “And what are you doing tonight, Clint?”

“I was just gonna—”

“Good. You’re my date. Come with me.” She drags him over to the golf cart, and Clint stumbles along, a little lost with the sudden turn of events.

The driver nods at him, then looks at the guard. “Let us in, Irv,” he says.

“But he—”

“Let us in,” the woman says sharply. “He’s with us. He’s my date.”

The other woman chuckles. “Janine, are you trying to make Harry jealous?”

“Oh, you just know he’s going to be here with some floozy on his arm. And if he can do that, then I’m going to bring this handsome boy, and show him that I don’t care.” She smiles at Clint. “My name is Janine. My husband recently divorced me for a much younger woman, and he likes to show her off.” She pats his arm. “I’m going to borrow you for a little bit, is that alright? Just long enough to show him that I don’t care about him anymore. I’ve moved on.”

Clint blinks. “What…what do you need me to do?”

“Oh, just dance once or twice with me,” she says. “Hang on my arm and look pretty when we walk past him.”

“I…” He looks around. “Okay?”

“It’ll be fun,” the other woman assures him. “I’m Maria, this is my husband Mark.”

Clint looks around as they drive through the gate, then around the back of the building. There’s a giant parking lot back here, which is apparently the destination. There’s dozens of golf carts back here, all parked in a vague circular shape. There’s lights strung around on poles, and a big white tent in the middle. A band is playing on a raised stage, some oldies song that Clint distantly recognizes.

He doesn’t see anything suspicious, but he also doesn’t expect there to be a sign saying “Bad Guys This Way” or anything. He’ll have to look around more.

“Do you see him?” Janine asks Maria. “Is he here?”

“I don’t,” Maria says. “But I think you should take your boy here and go dance anyway.” She smiles at them.

“Yes,” Janine says. “I should, shouldn’t I? Forget about Harry, I’m here to have fun.” She grabs Clint’s hand. “Come. Come dance with me.”

“I’m underdressed,” Clint says, looking down at his jeans. “I wasn’t planning on a party.”

“That’s alright,” Janine says. “Trust me dear, you look good.” She pats his arm. “Do you know how to dance?”

“Yeah.” He does, actually. He had to learn for a mission with Nat, once, and then had kept taking classes for awhile afterward because he liked it so much. It reminded him of his circus days a little bit. He’s got some fond memories of dancing with the acrobat girls.

Janine stops suddenly. “There he is,” she says, and Clint follows her gaze to a overweight, unkempt looking man perched on the back of a souped-up golf cart. He’s practically bursting out of his ill-fitting suit, and he’s also clearly drunk, double-fisting cans of cheap beer. “That’s him. That’s Harry.”

There’s a blonde woman hanging on his arm, and privately, Clint thinks floozy was a good word to describe her. She’s twisting a piece of hair around her fingers and laughing way too loudly at everything Harry is saying, to the point where he can hear her over the music.

He glances at Janine, who looks both furious and hurt. “He slept with her,” she says, noting his look. “When we were still married. For the whole last year, he was seeing her behind my back.”

Clint looks at him, then back at her. “Sorry about that,” he says, and takes her arm. “Alright. Come with me. I can spare a dance or two.”

He takes her into the crowd. The music changes as they work their way in, turning into more of a slow waltz. The dance floor thins a bit, and Clint positions them right in front of Harry. “You know how to waltz?” he asks.

“I do,” she says. “I was a professional ballroom dancer, once upon a time.”

“Awesome,” Clint says, offering her a hand. “Well. Let’s show that asshole what he’s missing, yeah?”

They dance. It’s a little awkward, since she’s so much shorter than he is, but they make it work. Make it look damn good, in Clint’s opinion. It’s been awhile since he’s been ballroom dancing, but he remembers what to do, and they sweep their way around the floor with a grandiose manner that makes everyone stop and watch.

_Should take Bucky dancing someday,_ he thinks, and tries to squash the sudden worry that rears up in him as the song ends.

Janine tilts her head. “Are you alright, dear?”

“Fine,” he says. “I’m just worried about someone.”

“Who?”

“My boyfriend.”

She nods sagely. “Is he alright?”

“I don’t know,” Clint says. “I haven’t heard from him in awhile. We were doing something together when we got separated, and he disappeared. I’ve been trying to find him since then.”

Janine looks alarmed. “I’m sorry, honey. Do you need to go? I can—”

“It’s fine,” Clint says, glancing over towards Harry. He’s staring at them, eyes hard with anger. “Don’t worry about it. I can spare a few minutes to help you get some revenge on an asshole.”

The music starts up again, another ballroom dance that Clint can’t name but knows the steps for. He leads Janine through the turns, watching Harry’s expression get more and more annoyed. “I think we’re pissing him off,” he says, holding his hand up to twirl her around. “He looks like he’s about to combust.”

“Good,” Janine says fiercely. “I hope he does.”

Clint laughs and spins her again. “For the record,” he says, “I think you can do a lot better than him.”

“I _can_ ,” she says. “It’s taken me many years to see it, but I can.” She steps into his arms. “How long have you been with your boyfriend?”

“Couple years,” he says.

“Have a couple more before you get married,” she says. “It’s not a decision to take lightly. Make sure you know exactly what you’re getting into.”

Her words carry years of experience, and she glances over at Harry when she says it. Clint just nods. He doesn’t have any plans of marrying, but he’s open to the idea if it’s something Bucky wants. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

The song ends, and Janine reluctantly steps back. “Well,” she says. “Thank you for that.”

“Anytime,” Clint says. “I gotta go do a thing, but if you’re still around when I come back, I’ll hit you up for one more, alright?” He kisses her on the cheek. “You’re a hell of a woman, Janine. You’ll find someone way better than that fat, cheating asshole.”

He walks her back to her friends, then extracts himself from the party and disappears into the shadows. He’s not really sure what he’s looking for. SHIELD was not specific on anything other than “A.I.M. has been spotted in the area, go look around.”

“Go look around,” Clint mutters. “Thanks, assholes. Real clear.”

He does his best. He figures if there’s anything suspicious, it’ll probably be in the basement—A.I.M. tends to like underground shit, after all. So he breaks into a back door, then makes his way down the first set of stairs he can find.

The stairs end in a door marked DO NOT ENTER. Clint doesn’t spare the sign a second glance as he picks the lock, then quietly eases the door open. It opens into a tunnel, long and dimly lit with flickering lights. Clint grimaces. “Should’ve brought your bow,” he mutters, starting down it.

_Should’ve brought your super solder,_ a little part of his brain says, and he rubs his eyebrows in frustration. He’s got a headache coming on again; he’s had one ever since Bucky disappeared. He just wants to check this shit out and get on the road again.

The hallway is stupidly long, and Clint almost feels like he’s walking into a horror movie or something. At any moment, those twins from _The Shining_ are gonna pop out and tell him to come play. Or a ghost is going to possess him, or all the lights are gonna go out, or there’ll be a spooky voice from the ceiling telling him to turn back, or—

Nothing happens. Clint reaches the other end ghost-free—which is almost disappointing, in a way. There’s another door here, which he picks open again. “Y’all need to get some better security _,”_ he says, easing it open. “If I was a bad guy, I’d have all kinds of alarms. I’d—”

He stops, because whatever he was expecting, it sure as hell wasn’t this. It looks like a giant warehouse, almost. The space is large enough that shadows engulf the far corners, and the low ceiling only adds to the creepy atmosphere. There are six isolation tents set up, each marked by a bright spotlight—the only steady sources of light in the entire room. Clint can see shadows moving around in them, like an eerie silhouette show.

A convoy of people in hazmat suits are rolling a table between the tents. The squeaking of the wheels startles Clint into movement, and he quickly closes the door and moves out of sight behind a tent, digging out his phone as he goes. _Okay, SHIELD was right. There’s definitely something going on here._

He snaps a few pictures for evidence, then stops to raid a rack of the yellow A.I.M. hazmat suits. It’s not the most comfortable disguise, but at least his face is covered. He keeps his phone in hand and advances towards the tent on his left.

It’s empty of people, except for the body laying on a gurney in the back. Clint advances carefully, not sure what to expect. He’s had some bad experiences with A.I.M. before, so he’s ready for pretty much anything.

Or, he is until he actually gets a good look at what’s on the gurney.

“What the fuck,” he says, too stunned to actually snap a picture. “What the—what the _fuck?_ ”

It’s a person, or at least it used to be. The woman is deadly still, her skin tinged a blueish-green. Her mouth is hinged open, way wider than any normal human’s, and there are _fangs_ where the regular teeth would be. Like vampire fangs, but longer and more horrifying, all razor sharp and deadly. It’s the creepiest thing Clint’s ever seen in his entire life.

He quickly takes a picture of it, then kneels down for a closer look. “What the fuck,” he whispers, probing at the slits in her neck. “Are those...gills?”

They _are_ gills, and Clint has a sudden urge to hurl—which probably won’t end well in his hazmat suit. He can’t stop himself from probing at them, disgusting though they are. It’s like some horrible combination of fish plus vampire, and he—

“Thompson,” someone snaps in a deep voice, and Clint whips around. There’s another suited person standing behind him, arms crossed in annoyance. “What the hell, man? You know not to get that close.”

Clint palms his phone, hiding it behind his back. “Sorry,” he says. “I just wanted to see how things were coming along.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then the hazmat guy tilts his head. “You’re not Thompson.”

Clint doesn’t have any time to scramble for a lie. The guy steps to his left and presses a button, and suddenly the light above them changes to red, bathing them in a eerie crimson glow. An alarm of some kind. A warning.

Clint winces. “Dammit.” He grabs a scalpel from a nearby table and flips it in his hand like a knife. Probably not gonna do shit, but he feels better having a weapon in hand anyway. He takes a couple steps forward. “I’m gonna leave now,” he says, pointing it at the guy.

The guy draws a gun on him, go fucking figure. “You’re not going anywhere,” he orders. “Who the hell are you? How’d you get in here?”

“In my defense,” Clint says, “your security is shit. You really thought two locked doors was gonna keep anyone out? I’m disappointed, honestly. I thought this was gonna be a challenge.”

“Keep talking,” the guy says. “We’ll get our answers soon enough.”

“Nah,” Clint says, looking around, frantically scrambling for a plan. He’s smarter than this, he should’ve had one ready to go. “I’m gonna go, I think. You, uh...have fun with your fish vampires.”

_Shove the gurney at him, slice through the side of the tent, book it for the door. Get back up into open air and call SHIELD, tell them they were right._

He puts his hand on the gurney, ready to start part one.

Then a hand clamps over his, and he looks down to see the fish vampire woman is now awake, and very, very angry looking.

Clint screams like a little girl and tries to yank his hand away, but she’s got a grip like iron, and he doesn’t get anywhere with it. She hisses something at him, something guttural and awful, then raises his hand to her mouth. Clearly going for a bite.

“Fuck _that_ ,” Clint snarls. He drops the scalpel, grips his arm, and pulls as hard as he can, bracing one foot against the gurney for leverage.

After a few seconds of desperate struggle, he pops free, stumbling backwards into a lab table. Everything on it goes crashing to the floor with a cacophony of shattering glass.

“No!” the hazmat guy yells, lunging forward. “What are you doing?”

Clint struggles back up to his feet, a task not made any easier by the suit. As soon as he’s up, the tent flaps open, and half a dozen people come swarming in. He barely gets in a few good punches before they’re on him, wrestling his arms behind his back and dragging him outside the tent. They pull him away from the main gathering of tents before shoving him down to his knees.

Half a dozen guns point at him. One person steps forward and yanks his hazmat hood off with an irritated, “Who the hell are you?”

Clint looks around. “Uh…” he says, gauging the potential of making it out alive without being shot. Slim to none, really. _Goddamnit, Barton. You know better than this._

“Who are _you?_ ” he challenges. “I think that’s the more interesting question here.”

“I’m asking the questions.” A gun smacks into the back of his head, and he winces. “I’d suggest you answer.”

“If you kill me, I’m gonna have a hard time answering anything.”

This gets him an irritated sigh. Then the leader reaches up and pulls off their own helmet, revealing a very annoyed looking woman. “I’m Dr. Jennings,” she says, crossing her arms. “This is my lab. Who are you?”

“Iron Fist,” Clint says.

“How did you get down here?”

“I was looking for the bathroom. Took a wrong turn.” He nods at the tents. “Human experimentation, huh? That’s…” _Horrifying. Disgusting. Wrong._ “Neat. What inspired the fish vampires?”

“I’m the one asking the questions, Hawkeye,” she says. The casual drop of his name is enough to rattle Clint, and he pauses for a moment. A triumphant expression crosses her face. “That’s right. I know who you are.”

“So why the hell did you ask?”

“Because I wanted see if you would lie to me.”

Clint snorts. “What, did you think I was just gonna say my actual name? Are you stupid?”

“One can always hope for honesty,” she says, shaking her head with mock disappointment.

One of the hazmats passes Clint’s phone to her, and she shakes her head. “Taking pictures? For SHIELD, I assume?”

“No, for my photography collection. Funnily enough, I just don’t come across fish vampires that often.” He tries for a charming smile, and gets a gun to his head for the second time. “Ow. Not necessary.”

She sighs again. “Delete all of those,” she says, handing it back to the guy. “And as for our lying guest, why don’t you take him into tent three and secure him? I’d be more than happy to give him a personal demonstration of what we’re doing here.”

“Oh, let’s not,” Clint says. “I’m sure it’s all on the up-and-up, I don’t need to know anything more.” He struggles as much as he can when they pull him to his feet, but there’s too many hands on him. “Seriously, it’s cool. I’ll just tell SHIELD there’s nothing fishy going on—”

“Shut the fuck up,” someone says, shoving his head forward.

“Oh come on, that was a _great_ pun—”

They manhandle him into tent three. It takes seven of them to put him on a gurney. “Strap him down,” Dr. Jennings says.

Next to him, another one of the fish vampires is going wild, snapping and snarling at everything in sight. It’s a little terrifying, actually, and even Dr. Jennings looks semi-alarmed at the sight. “I thought it was sedated?”

“The noise woke it,” one of them says. “We haven’t been able to get it under control.”

“You should focus on that,” Clint says, his voice strained as he fights against the guys trying to strap him down. “It looks pretty pissed off.”

“Your comments aren’t needed,” Dr. Jennings says to him. “Winston, give it a sedative. Harris, prep the cart for our guest here.”

“Question,” Clint says, nailing one last guy with a kick to the face before they get his legs secured. “Do you steal old people from that retirement home to use as subjects, or is it some kind of a money-laundering front? Or does A.I.M. just actually run a retirement home on the side? Is that where you send your employees when they leave?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dr. Jennings says, prepping a very large syringe full of orange liquid. Clint’s eyes go wide at the sight. “You won’t care in a few minutes anyway. You may all go,” she adds, dismissing the rest of the suits. They leave, and then it’s just him, her, and a snarling monster alone in the tent.

“If I’m gonna die, it won’t matter if you tell me,” Clint says, trying to sound reasonable and not terrified. _It’s orange, it’s orange, why the fuck is it orange?_ “Do me a favor and ease my burning curiosity.”

She sighs. “We find it useful to borrow subjects from there, from time to time.”

“So what, you just go up every couple days and snag someone’s grandma? That’s messed up, lady.”

“We only take those who are on the verge of dying,” she says, almost sounding offended. “And then we offer them new life.”

“With signed consent forms and all, I bet,” Clint says, twisting his right wrist. It’s looser than the left; he might be able to pull it free. “What do you tell the families?”

“That their relative passed in their sleep. It’s always very peaceful.” She attaches an oxygen monitor to his finger. “We are not the monsters you believe us to be, Hawkeye.”

Clint stares at her. “Uh…you’re turning grandparents into fish vampires. What the fuck is not monstrous about that?”

Dr. Jennings shrugs. “Think what you’d like. It won’t matter in a moment, anyway.”

She picks the needle up again, and Clint starts to panic. There’s not enough time for him to get free, not nearly enough, she’s going to turn him into a goddamn monster and he’s never gonna see Bucky again—

Just as she lays the needle against the crook of his arm, there’s a scream from outside the tent. A loud, ear-splitting scream, followed by a disgusting, wet ripping noise that makes Clint want to hurl.

“That’s not good,” she murmurs, a hint of worry crossing her face.

“You should check that out,” Clint agrees, and she slaps him. But she does put the needle down, and steps over to the tent door. Clint immediately stats working on his wrist, twisting and yanking it until the strap starts to come loose. _Yes yes yes yes—_

There’s another ripping sound, this one like plastic tearing, and Dr. Jennings suddenly lets out a high-pitched scream. Clint watches with wide eyes as she drops to the floor, suddenly buried underneath a pile of fangs and gills and _claws_ , and holy shit Clint needs to leave _right the fuck now._

His struggling makes the table squeak, and in a synchronized movement, all five of them look up, blood dripping from their mouths. It’s definitely the worst thing Clint’s ever seen in his life; he’s going to have fucking nightmares about this until the day he dies. They’re not _human_ , not anymore. Not with those fangs, and slitted eyes, and weird gill things flapping on the side of their necks. He has no idea how they’re breathing air, but honestly, he has no idea how any of this is happening at all.

The worst part is, if he squints, he can see the people they used to be underneath that. Can see the hint of callused hands under the claws, or a faint outline of a tattoo hidden behind the blue-green skin. It’s heartbreaking, really. _Fucking A.I.M. and their messed up shit._

“Hey, guys,” he says, finally working his wrist free. “Uh…how are things?”

They tilt their heads in another weird, synchronized movement, but they don’t attack. Clint frees his other wrist, and then his feet, then carefully slides off the table. “Cool,” he says, grabbing another scalpel. “I’m just…gonna go, then.”

He slices an X through the plastic and steps out, eyes on the fish vampires the whole time. They don’t make a move towards him. Just keep staring at him with those horrible, undead eyes.

Clint retrieves his phone from the main walkway, which is laying next to a lifeless hazmat guy. He fiddles with it for a moment, then takes a couple short videos, trying to be as quiet as possible. The fish vampires come out of the tent to watch him, still bloody and horrifying, and he shudders as they stare at him.

“That’s fucking creepy,” he tells them, and holds his phone up to take a picture. It goes with a bright flash, and he scowls at it. “Oh come on, who messed with my settings—”

There’s a hissing in front of him, and he glances up to see all five vampires slowly lowering their clawed hands from their faces. They look _angry_ now.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” Clint says, every single alarm bell in his head going off. “I, uh…”

There’s a high-pitched shriek, and as one, they all lunge at him.

Clint yelps in terror and dives to the side. They miss him by inches. He doesn’t give them a second chance; he rolls up to his feet and scrambles for the door he first came through. He slams it shut behind himself and sprints down the hallway, praying to whatever gods there are that fish vampires can’t work doorknobs.

But the gods aren’t listening, because the vampires don’t even use the doorknob. They just slam into it and knock it down completely. Clint would scream again, but he doesn’t have the breath for it. He just pours everything he has into running.

He makes it through the other door, slams that one too, and bolts up the stairs. This should be making him tired, but there’s so much terror and adrenaline crashing through him that he’s pretty sure he could run a goddamn marathon right now and be fine.

He’s at the top of the stairs when the door below him bursts open, followed by the familiar high-pitched shrieking. Clint rips open the door in front of him and keeps running towards the distant sounds of the party. He needs something faster than this; he’s gonna get tired and they’re going to catch him and fucking _eat_ him, how the hell is this his life—

There’s more shrieking, and the people on the outer edges of the party turn, eyes going wide as they take in what’s happening.

“Out of the way!” Clint shouts, barreling through the crowd, dialing as he goes.

The phone rings twice, then a voice on the other end starts the usual spiel. “This is—”

“It’s Barton, you were right, A.I.M. is stealing old people and turning them into fish vampires and there are five of them chasing me and I need backup like _right the fuck now!_ ”

There’s a stunned silence on the other end, and then the voice says, “Sending backup.”

Clint makes it to the edge of the golf cart party. There’s screaming behind him, people voices mixing with the shrieking fish vampires, and Clint turns long enough to see all five of them still following him, still angry.

He finds the cart he’s looking for—the souped-up one with Janine’s ex still on the back. “Hi,” he says, jumping on. “Gonna borrow your cart for a moment.”

The guy starts to argue, but Clint just turns the key and jams it into drive, then whips it around in a tight circle. “Hey!” he yells, flashing the lights. He needs them to follow _him_ , not eat anybody here.

The lights catch their attention, as hoped, and he drives through the crowd, yelling at people to get out of the way. He glances over his shoulder, sees all five of them coming his way, faces twisted in snarling anger.

“I hate my life,” he says, and shoves the gas pedal to the floor.

The guy on the back of the cart is still hanging on, and he screams as Clint whips the cart around, heading towards the gate. They’re open, at least, and Irv is nowhere to be seen. Clint pulls out onto the street and hangs a left, trying to keep it away from downtown.

The cart is fast enough to stay ahead of them, although Clint’s just enough of an asshole that he lets them get close enough to snap at the guy on the back.

“Hey,” he shouts back. “You’re Harry, right? You were married to Janine?”

“What?” The guy twists so he can hear Clint, terror written all over his face.

“You’re Janine’s ex, right?”

“I—yeah?”

“You’re an asshole,” Clint informs him, slowing a little more. “She’s a great woman, and you’re a complete dick for cheating on her.”

“Man, who the hell are you?”

“Just a guy who knows a good thing when he sees it. You’re lucky I’m not letting these things eat you, you know.” Harry screams, and Clint pulls out his phone. “Hold that thought,” he yells, and dials SHIELD again. “Hi, me again, where the _fuck_ is my backup?”

“Turn right,” the voice says, and Clint takes the turn sharp enough that they almost tip. “Keep going straight. We’ve got a team standing by. Are you on foot?”

“I stole a golf cart.”

“You…” There’s a brief silence, and then, “Okay. We’ll be ready. Get some distance between you and them.”

Clint floors the cart, and it takes off, putting an increasing amount of distance between him and the fish vampires. He sees the SHIELD van about a quarter mile down the road. He has no idea what they’re going to do, but he trusts them to handle it. Weird crap like this is just another day’s work to them.

The cart speeds right past the van, fish vampires trailing, and Clint turns to watch what happens. There’s a flash of something bright blue, and a high-pitched shrieking, and then _boom_ , all five fish vampires are being bundled inside. The doors slam shut, and the van pulls away from the curb.

“Awesome,” Clint says, and faces forward just in time to run into a goddamn cactus.

The cart slams into it hard enough to top over, dumping Clint right onto another cactus, this one smaller but just as prickly. It takes him a solid minute to extract himself, and his annoyance at that is only soothed by the fact that Harry has fallen into one as well, and is having a much harder time getting out.

“I’d help,” he says, “but my earlier point still stands. You’re a dick.”

Harry lets out a long stream of curses, and flails awkwardly. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he yells. “Who are you?”

“I’m just a guy,” Clint says. “Like I told you.” He scowls down at his hands, noting with dismay sheer amount of cactus prickles lodged in his right hand. “You know, I’m _really_ starting to hate Arizona.”

He checks the temperature on his phone as he sends the videos and other information to SHIELD. It’s still over a hundred degrees, despite being dark. _This place is just the worst._

There’s a whoop of a siren, and Clint turns to see a police car pull up. Two officers get out. One is tall and pale blond, with a face set into a permanent sneer. The other is a young brown-haired woman, who looks both amused and confused at the sight.

“Hi,” Clint says, waving with his non-cactus hand. “All good here, nothing to see, thanks for stopping.”

Which, of course, is the moment that Harry starts bellowing about _golf cart thieves_ and _destruction of property_ and _great personal injury._ Clint starts to explain, but somewhere around the first mention of fish vampires he finds himself being shoved over the hood of a cop car and _very_ thoroughly searched. He has to concentrate on keeping himself in check for that—part of him wants to fight out of habit, but part of him also remembers the one time _Bucky_ bent him over a cop car, and he distantly thinks that this would probably be the worst time ever to get a boner.

He winds up in the back of the car, a little annoyed and a little turned on, and wishing more than ever that Bucky was around.

“This would’ve been way more fun with you,” he mutters, leaning his head on the window. “Where the hell are you, man?”

The officers get in the front, and the younger one turns around. “You okay back there?”

“There’s a cactus in my hand,” Clint says.

“We’ll take care of it at the station,” she promises, and the car pulls away from the curb.

* * *

**NOW:**

“So that’s what happened,” Clint says, leaning back in his chair. “And as promised, it’s the same thing I told you last night.”

O’Brien is actively trying not to laugh now. Clint grins back at her, then focuses his attention on Logan, who is far less amused.

“Look,” he starts, but then the door suddenly opens and another head pokes in.

“Sir? He’s being released.”

Logan looks pissed. “What?”

“He’s being released.” The guy motions him over, and Logan reluctantly gets up, following him outside.

O’Brien steps over to the table. “How’s your hand?”

“Cactus free,” Clint says. “Thanks for that.”

She nods. “Seemed the least I could do. You had a rough night, what with the…fish vampires and all.”

“I know how it sounds,” Clint sighs. “Trust me.”

Logan comes back, still looking furious. “You’re being released,” he says, and frees Clint’s hands. “You can go.”

Clint wants to ask why, but he’s not going to argue. He suspects SHIELD had something to do with it, and the last thing he wants to do is piss this guy off more. He needs to get out of here and search for Bucky.

O’Brien gives him his things back, and escorts him out to the parking lot. “Thanks,” he says. “Uh…nice meeting you?”

She shakes his hand. “I know Janine,” she says. “My parents live next door to her. She’s a great lady, and I’m looking forward to telling her that you dumped her ex-husband in a cactus.”

Clint laughs. “I’d appreciate that,” he says. “Tell her she’s a great dancer and I’d be happy to dance again with her anytime.”

“Will do.”

His phone rings. He waves goodbye to O’Brien and starts walking as he answers. “Barton.”

The familiar voice of the Agent in Charge comes through. “We might have a lead on Barnes.”

Clint freezes. “Where?” The Agent in Charge tells him, and he nods. “Okay. What’s the temperature there?”

“Um…there’s a clicking of a keyboard, and then, “Eighty-three degrees?”

“Awesome,” Clint says. “I’ll steal a car and be on my way.”

“Agent Barton, do _not_ —”

Clint hangs up. “You’d better fucking be there, Barnes,” he mutters, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Because if you’re not, I’m gonna find wherever SHIELD put those fish vampires, and I will _lock you_ in a room with them, and enjoy every second of it.”

He tries to put aside the worry for now. He needs to grab his shit and hit the road. The next stop is almost a full day’s drive from where he is now. The sooner he can get started, the better.

“Gonna need _so_ much coffee,” he mutters, and starts walking.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


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